


Blues in the Night

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rebecca isn't willing to let Dan slip out of her life so easily, not a second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blues in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written October 2004.

He isn't in Anthony's.

 

Some of the others are there: she sees Casey, Dana; two people in a quiet booth, kissing as though there were no tomorrow, who she thinks are probably Jeremy and Natalie; Kim, sitting on a high stool at the bar, surrounded by a group of bug-eyed, slack-jawed, drooling admirers. No-one else.

 

Casey sees her, she thinks, but he doesn't look friendly – why should he? – and she doesn't approach him. She turns, and goes quietly back into the street; stops, for a moment, and thinks.

 

There are a thousand places he might have gone, discounting the remote possibility that he might simply have gone home. This is New York, the city that never sleeps, the city of – well, of everything. She doesn't know where to start looking.

 

She knows where _not_ to start. He won't be in any of the places he'd ever taken her. Even if he'd gone through a convoluted enough train of logic to reason that this is what she would think, and therefore that's what he should do – and this is Danny; he's perfectly capable of coming up with a line of reasoning that twisted – he still wouldn't go to any of those places.

 

In the end, it's not so hard. There's a blues bar – or it may be a jazz bar, she honestly can't tell the difference, she hates them both – about midway between the CSC studio and Dan's apartment. He's mentioned it a few times, talking about bands and singers whose names mean nothing to her, reverence in his voice, while she tries to feign polite interest, until he laughs and promises that he'll never make her go there.

 

She goes there now, and there he is: sitting alone in a corner booth, a beer in front of him, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. He looks older, she thinks, than she remembers; far older than he should for the relatively short time she's been gone. She hadn't realised, seeing him on TV, but she knows how big a difference a clever make-up artist can make; they wouldn't have let him go on screen if he hadn't looked good. Not that he looks bad. Oh, no. He's wearing the deep-red shirt he'd been wearing the other day; it makes him look dark, and exotic and, with the shadows that crowd his face, even a little dangerous. Not in the way that Steve could be dangerous; not like that. This isn't a threat. It's a promise.

 

There's music playing, if you can call it that; he's nodding his head in time, keeping the beat. She remembers dancing with him, pressing against him, holding his body close against her own, and a wave of desire, no, call it what it is – it's lust, simple and basic and animal – sweeps over her so that she has to pause, dizzy, breathless; she wants him, needs him; she can't believe that she was ever mad enough, dumb enough, naïve enough to give him up.

 

She can't believe that she's mad enough, dumb enough, naïve enough to think he'll take her back, but why else has she come here? Why else would she be standing just inside the door of an unfamiliar bar, way out of her own neighbourhood, surrounded by jostling, half-drunk strangers, listening to music (if, she thinks again, you can call it that) that she can't stand? Why else, if not to swallow her pride, to try to win back the man she let go, the man whose heart she has every reason to believe she broke; a man who, she has every reason to believe, has every reason never to want to see her again, every reason not to trust her.

 

She _knows_. He couldn't have made it any plainer if he'd walked up to her and yelled in her face, if he'd taken out front-page ads, if he'd hired a plane and written it across the sky. And yet, here she is. And yet. She's willing her feet to move, and crossing the floor; she's standing in front of him and saying his name.

 

He opens his eyes and smiles sleepily up at her. "Hey," he says, and lets his eyes drift shut again.

 

"Hey, you," she says. He seems unsurprised to see her, but then again, she can tell by the slight glaze in his eyes, the slur in his voice, just how drunk he is; it's entirely possible that he thinks she's an hallucination.

 

She moves around the table and sits down next to him; when a waitress passes, she orders a glass of wine.

 

"So," she says, finally, when Dan has been silent for far longer, she's sure, than Dan has ever been silent in his life before. And she means cumulatively. "So, I read the business news today. CSC found a buyer."

 

He opens one eye again and peers lazily over at her. "You came here to tell me that? You didn't have to do that. I already knew."

 

"I thought you might do." Her wine's arrived; she takes a careful sip (it's vile), and holds the glass cupped between her hands. "So, I take it you won't be going to Los Angeles?"

 

"I might." He yawns. "They have Laker Girls. Laker Girls are cool."

 

"We have girls here in New York, too, Danny."

 

"Not Laker Girls. Unless, you know, they would come here on vacation – "

 

She interrupts him; she can tell when Dan's planning one of his avoid-this-conversation-at-all-costs flights of fantasy.

 

"And yet you didn't call me."

 

He straightens up a little then, glances sidelong at her. His beer bottle's in his hands; his fingers are peeling off the label. Long, sensitive, talented fingers; she recalls their touch, remembers what those fingers could do to her, and shivers again.

 

"And yet," he says, "I didn't."

 

What can she say to that? There's nothing to say; but she daren't not keep talking. Words are the only bridge she has a chance of building.

 

"Did you lose my number?"

 

He's suddenly, intently focused on the foil around the bottleneck, trying to pull it away all in one long strip. It seems determined to shred in his fingers, as if to spite him. She wonders if that's symbolic, in some way.

 

Probably not.

 

"Danny?" And if she sounds pleading, desperate, well? What of it? That _is _what she is. She's sacrificed her self-esteem before, and that for a man who wasn't fit to stand in Dan's shadow. She can't have much farther now to fall.

 

He mumbles something.

 

"What?"

 

He looks up then, and she sees that he isn't drunk any more, if he ever was. He's tired, and wary, and he really doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to be with her, he doesn't want to have to put into words what she should already know. But at least he's _there_, he's focused, he's giving her the benefit of his full attention. For whatever joy she may have of it.

 

He puts the bottle down carefully, but he might as well have slammed it; she can tell he wanted to. Thank Steve for that. She can tell the warning signs with her eyes closed, from a mile away.

 

"I said, I tore it up!" he says, too sharply; he closes his eyes, then, and draws in a deep breath. "Rebecca. I'm sorry, but I honestly just don't care any more. You made your decision, and I'm sorry it didn't work out for you, but I can't – I can't just be the guy you fall back on when things don't work out. I can't be that guy."

 

And now, if she hadn't already gone far enough, she has to take one step further. She puts out her hand and touches his. "I don't believe you, Danny."

 

He snatches his hand away. His eyes sweep up to meet hers, and she catches a brief glimpse of agony before his mask of indifference falls back into place. Her heart begins to beat a little faster. "I think you do care," she says.

 

He looks away; rests his head back against the couch. "Yeah? What makes you think that?"

 

"You said 'I'm sorry' twice."

 

"What else am I supposed to say?" he demands. "I _am_ sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough for you, I'm sorry I wasn't what you wanted."

 

God. Was that what he'd believed? "That wasn't the reason, Danny. It was just … Steve was my husband. We had to _try_."

 

"Tried hard, did you?" he says, nastily, and then laughs. "I should say 'sorry' for that, too, shouldn't I?" He sits up straight and turns to her. "So, tell me, Rebecca - why should I think I'm what you want now?"

 

"Because I'm here," she says, simply; softly. And he says, as simply and as quietly, "Fuck."

 

He gets up then, and heads for the bathroom. She's not sure whether he plans to come back, but, finally, he does. He's got them fresh drinks while he was gone, too.

 

She's been defensive long enough, she decides. Dan's as closed and as unreadable as ever he can be, his face expressionless as he passes her her glass. And in all that he's said, he's never said that he missed her, never given any indication that it was his heart that she'd broken, not only his self-esteem. And so she says, "Look, Danny, I'm sorry I bruised your ego, but – "

 

He says, quieter than ever, as if the words hurt him, "You did more than that."

 

That's a step in the right direction, but not far enough. She has to press for more. "What?"

 

But it was a step too far for Dan, evidently. He sinks back into himself, shaking his head. "Nothing," he says, and takes refuge in his beer. "It doesn't matter."

 

Which is Danny-speak for 'it matters very much, so much that you will have to rip me to shreds and search through the forensic evidence with tweezers and a microscope to find out what it is that I'm not saying, because that's all you'll get from me'. She sighs, and makes the attempt anyway. "Danny. What?"

 

He hunches a shoulder, goes back to his beer. "Ask Casey," he mutters.

 

Yes. Because that'll happen. "I don't think Casey's going to talk to me," she points out.

 

Dan closes his eyes again, breathes in deep and slow; his fingers tighten around the bottle, white about the knuckles. "Ask him anyway," he whispers. "Ask him about the day his co-anchor came completely unglued in the middle of a national television broadcast and made him look an idiot in front of four million viewers. Ask him about that."

 

Her forehead wrinkles as she casts her mind back. "I don't remember that …"

 

His head comes up at that. "You watched the show?"

 

She may as well admit it, now she's given herself away. "Sometimes." Okay, she's not telling him everything. She means 'obsessively'. Every night. If she couldn't watch it, she'd tape it. Sometimes she'd tape it anyway. And that, finally, after everything they'd survived and all the effort they had made, had been the end for her and Steve.

 

"You hate sports," Dan says. He sounds puzzled.

 

They've had this discussion before. "I don't _hate_ them. I'm not _obsessed_ by them. You have trouble making the distinction, you always did."

 

He snorts in contempt. "You should be nicer to me. If you want me that bad."

 

And just like that, she's regained the upper hand. It's her turn to lean back, to tilt up her chin and smile into his eyes. "Who said I wanted you?"

 

"You're here, aren't you?" he points out, with unassailable logic.

 

She brushes that away. "I was just passing."

 

And now he's trying not to smile back at her. "You're inside. That's not 'passing'."

 

"I wanted a drink."

 

"In a jazz bar."

 

"Yes."

 

"Because you _love_ jazz."

 

"Yes."

 

"Almost as much as you love sports."

 

"Pretty nearly as much, yes."

 

He waves an expansive, unsteady hand. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world …"

 

It's a terrible Bogart impression. She says so. He looks puzzled.

 

"I was doing Bogart?"

 

Oh. That can't be good. She checks the back of the couch to see if she can spot his jacket. "It's time you went home, Danny."

 

He sighs. "I know. I just don't know where 'home' is any more."

 

"Maybe," she suggests, "Maybe it's where I am?"

 

But that makes him frown and shake his head, as if the concept were too complex for him to follow. "I don't think so. You were in California most of last year. I'm pretty sure my home isn't in California."

 

"Danny – "

 

"I'm not saying it couldn't be. It's a good place, California. Sunshine, the Pacific Ocean, Laker Girls …" He stops, the frown deepening. "Huh. Déjà vu. I'm pretty sure I already said all this."

 

"Danny." She thinks it may be safe, now, to reach out and touch his arm. She tries it. This time he doesn't shy away or flinch, and so she lets her hand rest there. "You're drunk."

 

"I know," he says, with dignity. "I've been drinking. That's cause and effect for you."

 

She stands, and pulls him up after her. He follows without resistance. "I'm taking you home."

 

"My home?"

 

"Yours. Mine. Does it matter?"

 

"I guess not," he admits. "Not so long as we both get there. And so long as we're both on the same page."

 

"Page?" She raises her eyebrows in question. "Which page is that?"

 

He looks down at the floor, or maybe his shoes, and mumbles, "The page that says that you don't love me, and I don't need you." It's a final show of defiance, and it barely convinces.

 

"Do you want to be on that page?" she asks him, gently.

 

"It's where we are." He pauses; looks at her. "Some day, maybe we'll turn it." Then he smiles, a crooked, drunken, utterly charming smile. "You watched the show!"

 

And so she takes him home.

 

***

 


End file.
